


Attainable Human

by telekinesiskid



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anger and Regret, M/M, Non-con probably, POV Second Person, bad music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 19:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6485422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid/pseuds/telekinesiskid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just you and him, him and you, as promised, as expected, except that it’s not. It’s not the both of you, together. It’s him and then it’s you, united only in theory, him in the driver’s seat and you his passenger, divided by a gear shift that sticks uncomfortably and a radio that can’t be tuned to a station without static.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attainable Human

**Author's Note:**

> I read........... some really sad meta about Ronan and Kavinsky's beautifully fucked up relationship today, and I was inspired to write *something* and this came out so here ya go lmao
> 
> thank you [kiiouex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex%22) for beta'ing!!! she's a good

You don’t understand. This was supposed to be it. Just you and him, him and you, the two of you versus the whole fucking world. But there’s no fight left, in either of you, in anything.

As soon as you said _yes,_ it became a _no._ You know how shitty that is, but you can’t help the way your blood roils in the opposite direction whenever he’s near. It was the thrill of the chase that kept you wanting, yearning with the force of a thousand sleepless nights, and now that you’ve caught up to him, you don’t know what to do. You’re standing in one place, restless, appreciative of the pause but set to keep running, but you can’t because he’s stopped. He’s taken your hand and cuffed you both to a stake in the earth that’s not unlike a grave marker. _Here lies fun,_ it says. _Here lies everything that was easy and casual about this._

The well of raw, unapologetic flirting has dried up and left at the very bottom is the equivalent of papers to take out a mortgage. It’s like he’s goddamn _married_ you, only you skipped over the honeymoon phase completely and hit your fifty-ninth-year anniversary with no party to follow. It’s just you and him, him and you, as promised, as expected, except that it’s not. It’s not the both of you, together. It’s him and then it’s you, united only in theory, him in the driver’s seat and you his passenger, divided by a gear shift that sticks uncomfortably and a radio that can’t be tuned to a station without static.

Smoke fills the Mitsu, thick and pulsing. You crack a window but, impossibly, it just circulates the sweet stale air around than let any new air in. You briefly think about throwing open the door—for some air, you’ll say—and then you think about throwing yourself from a moving vehicle travelling at—you peer at the speedometer—really, 110 kilometres per hour? It feels like forty. _I can’t believe I left Gansey for this._

At least Gansey had a plan. At least Gansey kept things fresh.

This entire affair feels about as fresh as the scabs caked on your knuckles, as the Band-Aids on your fingers that are more black than skin-coloured.

You’ve given up on the radio; you mean to break it as your foot connects and caves in the front, but, somehow, as you pull your foot away and broken plastic chips drip down, it hangs on. Kavinsky slips the joint between his lips and tries his luck with tuning it; he’s finished in five seconds flat. Trust Kavinsky to find a station that only _sounds_ like music, but is the same buzz-sawed junkyard discordant percussion that he plays every day. Yesterday’s hit track. You want a new one, not from the same artist, not from the same album on loop.

The dispassion and the remorse and the revulsion surge for an outlet, all at once, and you raise your foot to kick the radio in proper but Kavinsky snaps your knee back down. You throw a filthy look at him but he just smiles, like he thinks you’re still in the game. “I like this song,” he mumbles.

“Pull over,” you spit, because you can’t take it, you can’t take _this,_ and he slows and leisurely drifts in a cocky kind of way that you don’t much appreciate. He kills the engine—he keeps the radio on and your hands clench—and coolly regards you, blowing smoke in your face like you’d still try to breathe every piece of him in. Your nostrils flare, the skin all around your eyes pinches. Your heartbeat pumps in your ears, knocking, knocking, knocking: _let me the fuck out._

“Your move, Ro,” he says, stamping out his joint just shy of your hand. He looks at you with those weary panda-bruised eyes, so dark they look sunken. Veins lace the whites of his eyes like little red threads you could just reach in and pull out. He wets his chapped, picked-raw lips but they dry out seconds later.

You wish you couldn’t see his face. You wish he’d put his shades back on. You wish you didn’t have to see him this close up and personal and intimate all the time now; you can see his soul from here and it’s just a big, black pit where fond racy memories go to die.

You won’t look at him then. You push him out the Mitsu and he follows your every incensed, wordless demand like a puppet; he practically flops to the roadside when you finally get open the door with your feet straining against him. You get out yourself, slam the door so loud it rings _,_ and round the car to see him still loose and pathetic on the ground. You drag him up by the back of his shirt, haul him to the front of the Mitsu and shove him down so his pale cheek is pressed flat to the hood and your dick is pressed to his ass.

You hate him. You want him to know just how much you hate him as you tear down his jeans and boxers, kick open his legs and shove inside him with absolutely no ceremony and a complete lack of precision. His muscles give way and you jerk forward, nailing him into his car, forcing a hard knock of his breath to spill out over the hood. Your head swims; you grit your teeth and blink back tears, because it hurts as much for you as it does for him, and you’re both so dry you can barely move. You try anyway, starbursts of dazzled pain behind your eyelids, and you can still hear that _fucking_ _noise_ from the radio even as his frantic grunts try to drown it out. It’s the soundtrack to Kavinsky’s life, and it has no rhythm, and it has no end, and no matter how hard you try not to, you still fuck in time to it.

His hands fly up from the dark nowhere; they grapple the smooth hood and find no purchase, his fingertips turning a yellow-white as they slide down the metal. You’re the only thing holding him up, you know, because his entire lower half has gone slack, wracked with the shudders you pummel into him, and you keep having to re-throw him back up onto the hood to hit some half-decent angles. You don’t know if this is doing anything for him. You don’t know if he’s just going through the motions, or if this is what he actually wanted from you, or if he’ll let you do just about anything you want to him, so long as it means you’ll stay.

It’s slicker now, suddenly easy and pliant, but you think it’s just the blood; yours or his, probably both. You fuck into him until his little noises have died down into winced breaths, like he’s bored, like he’s fallen asleep, and you were just about to chuck in the towel, too, but you won’t now. You have to show him, you have to _give it_ to him, and you waste more time with your clumsy attempts to recapture the good old days, when you barely even had to touch him to make him ruin his pants. Yet here you are, not even a _month_ later, frustrated and unsatisfied, furiously rutting into him as he patiently waits for you to either give up or mercifully finish, and both options are about as equally likely. _I miss Gansey._

You bunch Kavinsky’s shirt up at his neck, see his bones strain under his too-taut skin. Your nails press into his back, tear angry red stripes down around his spine, and he arches just so, his utterance one of relief. He wants to be hurt just as much as you want to hurt him. _It works,_ he tells you, but it doesn’t, not for you. If he derives pleasure from it then you’re not really hurting him, are you?

Your hips abruptly stop their desperate, needy thrusts, exhaustion claiming another victory. You pull out your unspeakable dick, and when you step back Kavinsky just _drops,_ like you’ve been fucking a corpse this entire time, the meat gone cold on you without you noticing. Your disappointment is heavy, a bottomless well. You dropped a stone down there a few weeks ago and you’re still waiting to hear the plunk.

He does pick himself up, too slow for a fast lane guy. He cranes to look at you—you who are probably just a white spectre in his headlights—and smiles like this is okay, this is fun, this is fixable. “Don’t worry about it, Ro,” he says, voice hoarse with smoke and sex and every inch of his painful existence. “Happens to the best of us. You’ll get your mojo back in no time, stud.”

You stare him down for another minute. Then you get back in the car.

He follows you, some minutes later. The Mitsu wobbles as he uses it to clamber on up to his feet, spitting curses into it, and you watch in the side wing mirror as he cleans himself up and takes a piss. When he walks back to the driver’s side, it’s with a limp that won’t go away anytime soon. He climbs in, he carefully rolls himself another joint, tosses back a few more pills, chases it with a little vodka, looks at you like he can keenly feel how much he’s losing you and would rather lose his grip on reality instead. Safer, impermanent, easier to deal with.

He takes the Mitsu back onto the winding black roads. Kavinsky’s awful music plays on like psychological warfare. “Anywhere you wanna go?”

_Gansey,_ your heart echoes. _Church. School. Monmouth. The Barns. Back to that night I fucked up._

You turn your head out to your window. “No.”

“I’ll just keep driving until we’re dead then,” Kavinsky says, not a trace of irony to his tone.

You wonder if Gansey will take you back.

**Author's Note:**

> yo come yell at me over on [tumblr](http://telekinesiskid.tumblr.com/)


End file.
